Lullaby for a Stormy Night
by SolarRose29
Summary: Steve is mystified when Natasha shows up on his doorstep in the middle of the night, soaking wet.


This takes place between Avengers 1 and Winter Soldier. Personally, I ship Romanogers but this fic is ambiguous.

Title from the Vienna Teng song of the same name.

* * *

The trumpets reached a crescendo, then cut off. The needle skipped over the finished vinyl, crackling in the most comforting sound Steve could recall ever hearing. He let the record player spin uselessly until he finished the paragraph in the book he was reading. Carefully dog earring the page to mark his place, he shut the book, laid it aside, and turned off the record player. Without Harry James' orchestra playing their songs, the rain was an unmasked drumming against the window panes. It pounded the glass as the wind threw the drops against the apartment building in sheets. Thunder grumbled across the sky occasionally, though there was no lightning.

Steve gathered the cup and saucer from his after dinner cup of coffee, long since finished, and set them in the sink to be washed with the breakfast dishes tomorrow. Making his way through the apartment using only the light from the lamp in the living room, he went into the bathroom and brushed his teeth for bed. When he came out, he thought he heard a rapid, short knock on his front door. Dismissing it as the tapping of raindrops on the window, he took a few steps toward his bedroom. But the knocking came again, more impatient than before.

Since he had only moved into this apartment three weeks ago, without sharing the address with anyone, Steve couldn't imagine who could possibly be on the other side of the door at ten thirty in the night, while a spring storm drenched the city outside. He spared a quick glance at his shield, leaning against the hallway wall within easy reach. Satisfied he could defend himself if needed, he peered through the peephole and immediately unlocked his door, throwing it open.

"Natasha!" he exclaimed.

His teammate was shivering in front of his apartment, completely soaked.

"Please, come in," he invited.

When she made no move to do so on her own, he lightly gripped her elbow and drew her into the entryway. He leaned over to flip on the lightswitch. Her only reaction was to jerk at the unexpected brightness and squint in its illumination.

"Are you okay?" Steve asked, taking in her appearance.

Her dress, an elegant black cocktail dress, was saturated with rain. The wet material clung to her skin, accentuating her curves.

"What happened?" Steve prompted, making a conscious effort to keep his eyes firmly on her face.

Again, she didn't answer, merely trembling. Water droplets dripped off the ends of her moisture-flattened hair, sliding down her throat and snaking toward her exposed cleavage.

"Hey, let's get you dry, huh?" Steve suggested. "Come here."

With a hand gently pressed to her shoulder blade, he guided her into the living room. After easing her down onto the couch cushions, he knelt in front of her.

"Natasha?" he called quietly. Sluggishly, her gaze tracked over the room before settling on his face. "I'm going to get you a towel, alright?"

Despite her lack of verbal response, he still felt better for narrating his actions first. Black Widow was a deadly assassin, with a kill count higher than he could imagine. He didn't want to startle her and risk triggering a defensive attack. He hurried to the bathroom and fetched a clean towel from the cupboard. When he brought it back to her, he held it out for her to take. She stared at it a moment before taking it into her hands. Once she had it, she didn't seem to know what to do with it, blinking at the white cotton in her fist. Growing more worried by the second, Steve reached out to help her. His approaching hand snapped her out of whatever daze she was in, as she jerked out of his reach and pulled the towel around her shoulders.

"Would you like me to make you some coffee?" Steve asked, wondering if he would even get an answer.

To his surprise, she mutely shook her head.

"Okay." He nodded once, sticking his useless hands in his pockets.

The rain filled in the space the conversation left empty. Steve furrowed his brow, contemplating what he should do next. Natasha needed to get warm and dry, and after refusing the coffee, there weren't many options left.

"Would you like to use the shower?" he offered.

She considered the question a moment, head tipping to the side. Her eyes narrowed at him and he refused to give in to the urge to squirm beneath her piercing stare. Finally, she must have found what she was looking for in his eyes, for she dipped her chin in the tiniest display of consent.

"It's just in there." Steve pointed across the room to where the bathroom was visible on the other side of the hall.

With one hand keeping the towel firmly held shut around her upper body, Natasha used the other to unstrap the pair of sleek heels she was wearing. As she did so, Steve was reminded of the fact that her dress was sopping wet and she would need a fresh outfit to change into. There had never been even a single scrap of women's clothing in his apartment since he had moved in. Momentarily, he considered getting on his bike and driving to the closet clothing store. Only to realize that, not only would he have no idea how to shop for something that would fit her, but it was also far past business hours. He knew none of his neighbors, aside from the occasional greeting on the staircase. All he had to offer was whatever was already here in the apartment.

Now free of her shoes, Natasha stood. Before she had the chance to make it to the shower, Steve bolted to his bedroom and retrieved a folded t-shirt from his dresser. He raced back to the living room, feet nearly slipping in the puddle Natasha had left on the hardwood by the couch. He caught up to her just as she was about to enter the bathroom.

"Here." He extended the shirt to her, meaning to add an apology as well. But the words got tangled up in his throat and he never managed to get them out before she took the shirt and quietly shut the door in his face.

A second later, the shower was turned on and Steve backed away from the door. Using a couple of paper towels from the roll in the kitchen, he returned to the living room to clean up the rainwater the SHIELD agent had left behind. As he did so, he mulled over what had happened. He didn't know Natasha very well. After the Battle of New York, the Avengers had split up and he didn't see her again until Fury paired them on an assignment four months later. Since then, they had worked together a handful of times but hadn't interacted much outside of work. Despite the lack of time spent together, he suspected her behavior tonight was unusual.

Not knowing what to expect, Steve tried to anticipate what she might need. If she needed somewhere to spend the night, he could provide that. While she showered, he stripped the bed and made it up with clean linens from the hall closet. He also brewed a fresh pot of coffee, in case she changed her mind about a hot drink. As the percolator cycled through, he collected her pair of high heels and set them by the front door. All too soon, his tasks were completed and he had nothing to distract him from the fact that it was late at night and he was alone with a beautiful woman in his apartment. In order to stop that train of thought before it could go any farther, he stepped to the window to watch the rain. The drops streaked down the glass in random patterns and he imagined capturing the designs in ink on paper.

Some time later, the bathroom door squeaked open and Natasha came out, her petite frame swamped by his large shirt. Swallowing hard, Steve stepped forward. He stopped with a respectable distance between them. Natasha wordlessly watched him, her expression unreadable.

He cleared his throat. "I made some coffee."

She blinked.

"Natasha, are you okay?" he asked earnestly.

Her neutral expression slipped a fraction before her mask slammed back into place and she jerked her head in a nod.

"Did something happen?" he continued. "Are you hurt?"

She shook her head.

"Do you want me to call someone?" he queried. "Fury, maybe? Or a cab?"

At that, she vehemently shook her head. He held his hands up, surrendering.

"Okay, okay. I won't call anyone," he assured her.

When she blinked again, her eyelids took longer to open. Steve then noticed how she was sagging against the wall, as if it was the only thing keeping her on her feet.

"Do you need a place to sleep?" he asked.

In response, she pushed away from the wall and trudged past him, going straight for the bedroom without further invitation or direction. Surprised at her familiarity with his rooms, Steve followed her in. She tugged on the chain of the bedside lamp, allowing a pool of honey golden light to illuminate the bed. After turning down the blankets, she crawled in, nuzzling her face into the pillows. Still concerned with her absence of speech, Steve sat on the very edge of the bed, facing forward. He turned his head over his shoulder to ask her one final question.

"Are you sure you're okay?"

But her eyes were already closed. As quietly as he could, Steve rose from the bed. No sooner had he done so than a slender hand closed over his wrist. He startled and whipped his head around to stare at Natasha. Her eyes were opened just enough to allow thin slits of green to peer out at him.

"Stay?" she whispered.

"I will," he promised, sinking back into his seat on the edge of the mattress.

She smiled softly before her eyes closed once more. True to his word, Steve waited until Natasha's breathing became deep and even, indicating her descent into slumber. Then he carefully extricated his hand from hers and slipped out of the bedroom, shutting the door noiselessly behind him. He went out to the kitchen, dumped the untouched coffee into the sink, and laid down on the couch to get a few hours of sleep. The rain continued outside, a natural lullaby.

Steve woke before sunrise. When a quick glance around his apartment revealed that Natasha had yet to come out of the bedroom, he decided to continue with his usual routine. At some point in the early hours of the morning, the rain had stopped, leaving behind puddles on the ground and a light mist in the air. He noticed both as he ran what was rapidly becoming a familiar path through the city. After his run, he tiptoed back into his apartment for a quick shower. The little black dress crumpled on the floor of the tub was an unexpected obstacle. Not knowing what else to do with the damp dress, he draped it over the towel bar. Problem solved, he got his shower. Once finished, he began the monumental challenge of making breakfast without making noise. He had only just started when Natasha stepped into the kitchen hesitantly.

"Hey," he instantly greeted.

She gave him a tight smile. "I was hoping you wouldn't be back yet."

"Good morning to you too," he said, unsure whether he should be insulted or not.

"Sorry. I'm used to leaving without having to make awkward morning small talk," she relented.

"Would you rather talk about last night?" he inquired quietly.

Pressing her lips into a thin line, Natasha shook her head and looked down, fingers toying with the edge of his shirt where it fell to her mid-thigh. Respecting her privacy, Steve didn't push her for information.

"How about some breakfast then?" he asked instead.

"That sounds good," she answered, stilling her fidgeting hands.

Steve smiled and pulled her chair out for her at the table before going back to the stove and cooking up some scrambled eggs. As soon as the food was ready, he fixed two plates and brought them to the table. He dug into his own meal with restrained enthusiasm, appetite well awakened by his morning run. Natasha ate her food at a much slower rate. Steve finished before she did, setting his fork on his plate and turning to her. Outside, the sun was climbing the sky, finally achieving enough height to shine in through his kitchen window. The sunbeams slanted in at such an angle that they highlighted the red of Natasha's hair and Steve became captivated by the sight. He reached out a hand, stopping just short of touching the soft strands.

"Your curls are back," he observed. "The rain had washed them out last night."

Natasha froze. Steve slowly dropped his hand to the table.

"Peggy always wore her hair in curls," he murmured wistfully.

Abruptly, Natasha pushed her plate away, standing up so sharply her chair scrapped thunderously against the floor. "I have to go."

"Already? You haven't finished eating," Steve protested.

"I'm not hungry," Natasha dismissed. "Where's my dress?" She glanced around the room as if expecting to see it ready and waiting for her.

"Oh, I didn't know what to do with it so it's hanging in the bathroom," Steve answered.

The glare Natasha trained on him made him flush with embarrassment.

"I'm sorry. I'll go put it in the dryer," Steve apologized.

By the time he had done so, Natasha was back in his bedroom, the door shut. Perplexed at her sudden change of mood, Steve cleaned up after their aborted breakfast. Once the dishes were stacked in the cupboard, he tried to talk to Natasha, rapping lightly on the closed door with the back of his knuckles.

"Natasha?"

"Tell me when my dress is dry," she ordered curtly.

"Natasha, please. Did I upset you?" Steve asked. "Was it something I said?"

She wouldn't answer him so he eventually gave up, returning to the book he was in the middle of. But the words on the page couldn't hold his attention and he found himself staring down the hall at the bedroom door. It was a relief when the chime on the clothes dryer sounded. Steve retrieved the black dress for Natasha.

"It's ready," he announced quietly, standing in the hallway.

The bedroom door was gradually opened and Natasha slowly came out. She accepted the proffered dress and glided into the bathroom to change. Steve stuck his hands in his pockets and leaned against the wall, waiting. In a matter of moments, she was outfitted in the cocktail dress and handing him his shirt. As soon as he took it, she noticed her shoes by the door and immediately walked over to them.

"Natasha," Steve called.

With one hand planted against the front door to maintain her balance, Natasha used the other to strap on the sleek heels she had been wearing. Now fully dressed, she faced him with her customary smirk. "Thanks, Rogers."

"Natasha-" Steve started.

But she unlocked the door and skated out before he could say another word. He was left in the entryway, shirt in hand and questions on the tip of his tongue.

-.-.-.-.-

"What's with the hair, Tasha?"

Natasha rolled her eyes. "Is that why you called, Barton? To ask about my hair?"

"At least I noticed!" he defended, his nose appearing comically big as he brought his tablet, and subsequently the camera, closer to his face to examine her image on the screen. "Right? It's straight, isn't it? You straightened it?"

"Get to the point, Clint," Natasha requested.

"Geez, you're chatty this morning," he grumbled.

She feighted pressing the button to end the video call. Clint responded exactly as she knew he would.

"Wait, wait! Don't! Okay, I just want to know what happened last night."

"That seems to be the million dollar question," she grumbled.

Clint frowned. "First, you go radio silent, then DeLauer is spotted leaving the club alone. When Hastings went in to try and find you, you were already gone. And you missed the rendezvous. So yeah. I want to know what happened to my partner."

Natasha raised an eyebrow. "We've both been reassigned. I'm pretty sure that means we're no longer partners."

He shrugged unapologetically. "You'll always be my partner," he stated matter of factly.

After smiling fondly at his declaration, Natasha launched into her explanation. "I had DeLaurens right where I wanted him. He insisted on one more round and then we were going to leave."

"Then why didn't you leave with him?" Clint interrupted.

"Because I couldn't," she said.

"Why?" he prodded.

Natasha clenched her jaw.

"Naaaaaaat…" Clint drew the name out for an annoying amount of time.

"Because someone slipped something into my drink," Natasha finally bit out, just to get him to stop.

Clint blinked. "Are you serious?"

She sighed, leaning back in her chair. "Yeah."

"Come on. The Black Widow got roofied?" he asked dubiously.

Grinding her teeth, she didn't reply.

"No way. That's a rookie mistake, Tasha," he continued.

"I know," she snapped.

"How the heck did they manage to do that?" he demanded. "You know to watch-"

"I know!" she repeated. "I watched the bartender the whole time."

"And?" he prompted.

"And DeLaurey's bodyguard brought them over," she reluctantly admitted.

"What did you do?"

Natasha crossed her arms. "As soon as I felt something was off, I said I had to use the ladies room."

"Let me guess. The idiots let you go?" Clint said.

Natasha arched an eyebrow at him. "If they hadn't, we would be having a very different conversation right now."

He held up his hand placatingly. "I'm all for stupid bad guys."

"Yes, they let me go. I slipped out the back and found somewhere safe to stay the night." Natasha finished her story.

"Where did you go?" Clint asked.

"I just told you. Somewhere safe," she answered evasively.

Having known her long enough to understand that she wasn't going to tell him, Clint merely poked a finger at the camera and by extension, her. "Okay, fine. Keep your secrets. But please," he added, "Be careful out there, Tasha."

"Are you serious right now?" she rolled her eyes, exasperated.

"Look, all I'm saying is you don't have me there to watch your back," he said, only half in jest.

"Be careful too. After all, you don't have me there to save your butt from all the messes you get yourself into," she shot back.

"Hey! That's not fair! I do not get into messes," he argued. "And from what I remember, there were equal amounts of butt-saving going on."

"Goodbye, Clint," Natasha chuckled, hanging up on the still protesting archer.


End file.
